Thank God It's Friday
by StarlightSteel
Summary: England comes home to find one of those nice dinner-type surprises, boyfriend included, after a hellish day at work. USUK, established relationship. Rated T for England's mouth, as usual. Warning for human names, male/male pairing, and some fluffy sap.


**Genre**: Romance, Hurt/Comfort(-ish)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: England, America  
><strong>Pairings<strong>: USUK  
><strong>Rating<strong>: T, to be extremely safe. One swear (more than one out of England's literary mouth), one bottle of wine, and two kisses.  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Human names, male/male pairing, Star probably doesn't understand how British people speak  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 1013

He spends the trip home from work wondering how much it would hurt him to punch every single person on the Tube in the face. It is highly indicative of the type of day he's had when he passes up a detour to the pub and even the off-license in favor of returning more quickly to his own comfortable bed at home.

He more or less stomps home from the station, all the way nursing the throbbing headache in his temples and lamenting the fall of piracy as a valid diplomatic strategy. When he arrives at the door, he finds it unlocked and glares at the fairy who pushes it open for him—it's a good thing, though, potential robbers aside, because he seems to have misplaced his keys anyway.

The first thing he registers is that _someone_ has tracked mud all over the entryway (sodding _rain_; it always bleeding _rains_)—then, that his shoes are disgusting, and that the kitchen smells vaguely delicious. Somewhere down the list is the realization that there is a leather jacket on the hatstand that most definitely was not there before, and almost immediately, he feels the sharp desire to go over and bury his face in it and probably fall asleep against the wall.

When he finally ventures into the kitchen from the hallway, he finds an impressive array of food laid out on the table, most of them dishes he has mentioned at one point or another as his favorites; there is even a teacup laid out with the proper tea leaves. The display ends with a sturdy blond man (well, maybe "boy" is a better term) sound asleep on his arms at the table, and the facts click together in Arthur's head to inform him that his boyfriend has journeyed all the way from New York, or maybe Washington, on a Friday, unannounced, and made him supper. He takes a moment to appreciate the fact and feels as if his former rage has transformed into a general self-conscious heat about his ears.

"What are you doing here?" he barks sharply, much more than he had intended, and watches with guilt as Alfred startles in surprise.

"Zuh…huh? Artie?" He peers in vain through his smudged glasses and has to take them off to clean them. "I, uh…you're home late; I thought you said y' get home at five on Fridays..."

Arthur scoffs in as disgusted a fashion as he can muster. "Well, I _would_ be home at five if Parliament weren't full of bloody idiots. They weren't even supposed to be in session today."

"Hey, we agree for once!" Alfred jokes brightly; his face falls when Arthur only glares at him in response. "Um…hard day at work, babe?"

"You can't even imagine." Not strictly true, but good for dramatic emphasis.

It achieves Arthur's desired response of affectionate puppy-dog eyes of sympathy, anyway. "Well, um…I—I missed ya, y'know, so I just…well, I had the day off, and I was gonna come this weekend anyway, and it's not like it's hard to get _plane tickets_, y'know, and all…I, uh…just got here early; I thought maybe you'd want dinner?" He's had a few years of experience dealing with the phenomenon he's named "Grumpy Arthur", and as such knows exactly when to tread carefully or risk crushing his boyfriend's toes and suffering vengeance.

"…I noticed," Arthur responds slowly, and Alfred is sure he has the entire battle won as soon as he sees that perpetually grouchy expression soften.

"I can, uh, heat it up for you, if you want, I mean you look like shit—no, no, I mean, like, you look exhausted; _jeez_, you're scary—but if you wanna go…lie down or something—"

"I can eat it like this, love; I spent several decades as a pirate. I could eat cardboard," Arthur interrupts, and Alfred is extremely proud of himself for restraining a glib "Well, _that_ explains a lot!" though he probably makes a funny face in the process. "…It's er…very…very kind of you, though, I mean," Arthur clarifies. "It—smells a lot more appetizing than cardboard. Oh, you…you know what I mean."

"'Thank you, Alfred, you are the most wonderful boyfriend in the history of life, not to mention the best cook, and I love you from the passionate depths of my soul'?" Alfred volunteers, and is pleased to observe that in response, Arthur simply goes red and mumbles, "Yes, well, something like that."

He produces a bottle of wine and lets Arthur drain about half of it (in one long draft; how does he _breathe_?) before he confiscates it again, chuckling at the little indignant noise he makes when denied his alcohol. He kisses Arthur instead, and that seems to be a satisfactory substitute, because Alfred can feel him smiling.

He shoos Arthur into the sitting room and cleans up the ransacked remains of his painstakingly-prepared dinner, noting with pleasure how much of the food is gone. Arthur is far too skinny, in his opinion, and no one in the _world_ can resist authentic American apple pie. Not even his boyfriend.

Arthur falls asleep on his shoulder watching some kind of strange British soap opera of which Alfred thinks it best not to ask, and he has to carry his boyfriend into the bedroom (really, he weighs _nothing_; he ought to eat a hamburger or something). After a few moments of deliberation, he kicks off his shoes and snuggles himself into the bed as well, clicking the lamp off and diving under the blankets. It is with satisfaction that he feels that the skin over Arthur's forehead is smooth and untouched by the worries of the day. So being a hero doesn't always have to mean catching a meteor with his bare hands after all. (He tried that once; it ended so badly he refuses to speak of it to this day. Thank God nations are so resilient.)

He kisses Arthur goodnight and mumbles, "G'night, babe, love ya," into his hair, and swears that Arthur squeezes his arm in accord even in his sleep.

Notes:  
>1. <em>Tube<em>: The London Underground. Of course. Pretend England lives somewhere close to one of the stations. As for punching people, there are approximately a bazillion people on the Tube at any given time, so I would imagine that it would hurt England as a country to punch every single one of them for being annoying, no matter how few of them were really British. Also punching people just hurts your knuckles.

2. _Off-license_: In the UK, an "off-license" is a liquor store. It sells alcohols for much lower prices than a pub or bar because it is licensed to sell alcohol _on_ the premises, but it must be consumed "_off_" the premises. There are no longer formal on-licenses and off-licenses, but the practice still exists. At least according to Wikipedia, and I don't know any British people I can ask for confirmation.

3. "_Babe"_: So in my USUK headcanon America calls England "babe" and England calls America "love". Feel free to replace these with your preferred terms of endearment. Literally; go on and copy it into a word processor and fix it. (Just don't reupload it!)

**A/N**: This was sort of a Christmas present for Meso the Hanyu...as opposed to her actual Christmas present I'm still working on. Yep. I apologize for any and all mistakes or unintentional offenses, and if you would like to correct me in regards to A BRITISH MAN WOULD NEVER SAY THAT WHAT ARE YOU AN _AMERICAN_, please feel free to do so! I hope you enjoyed~ Go on and review and/or favorite if you want; it's all good!


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